


An Experiment In Sentiment

by Apocalyptic_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/F, For Science!, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Sherlock gives himself bounderies, Tempted Sherlock, Too Helpful John, Unregulated Science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apocalyptic_tea/pseuds/Apocalyptic_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where science is unregulated and celebrated, John Watson is one of the lucky ones. Not good enough to pull himself out from the lowest class of London on his own, but healthy enough to be sold. When he finds himself in desperate need of money and no way to provide, John signs his life away and is forever branded as a Subject, to be used in scientific experiments at his owner's discretion. Imagine his surprise, then, when he learns he's been sold to one of the most renowned Brilliants in all of London, Dr. Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Imagine his confusion when Dr. Holmes refuses to use him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Refusal, an Insult, and a Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for deciding to read this! If you like it, please please please leave kudos or even a comment! Encouragement to keep writing is something I desperately need, haha. Please see the end for further notes.

“Take him back.” 

“Sherlock, don’t be difficult. You’re one of the most renowned Brilliants of London. For you to not have even one is-”

“Take. Him. Back.”

The first impression John ever had of Sherlock Holmes was his anger. Or perhaps anger wasn’t exactly the right word, but rather a stubborn, childlike indignation that seemed to permeate the entire room exactly because he willed it so. John had heard plenty about Sherlock Holmes, of course, everyone had, but he certainly had never expected to meet him in person. Or that John would meet him when the scientist was dressed in nothing but a white sheet, wrapped around him like a cocoon while he glared up at his brother from a leather chair. John shifted awkwardly behind the tall, heavy-set ginger man who had brought him here, waiting to see which set of wills would overpower the other. The rest of his life depended on the outcome, after all.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” his brother responded with a lofty air about him, his large mouth twisted in a way that showed clear signs of agitation. “He’s bought and paid for, the paperwork has been filed accordingly under your name, and it would be horribly inappropriate for me to take him for reasons I hope I don’t have to explain to you.”

Dr. Holmes remained silent in his chair, glowering. He still hadn’t taken one look at John, in fact had done everything in his power to blatantly skip his gaze over him whenever his eyes glanced in the blonde’s direction. While John wasn’t offended, he did find the behavior curious. The entire argument, for that matter, confused him greatly. He was perfectly healthy, no previous history of allergies or recreational drug use, and his clinical background ranked him, for all intents and purposes, highly recommended. By all accounts, he was a perfect Subject. So where was such distaste coming from?

Dr. Holmes’ brother (he hadn’t given John his first name) sighed at his lack of response. “After the incident last month, it has now leaked that your breakthroughs have gone relatively untested,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to a small child. “For now you are safe, but should anything go wrong that can be remotely traced back to you-”

“Then it would be the fault of those who improperly implement my theories, wouldn’t it?” Dr. Holmes cut off with a tilt of his head, as if challenging his brother to disagree with him. Though he was the basis of their entire conversation, John had the distinct impression the two had forgotten about his presence entirely. “And anyway, you know just as well that most of my work is centered on projects which require no live observation,” he added with an eye roll. His brother continued to look unimpressed.

“Nevertheless,” he pressed, and John noticed he was now twirling the umbrella in his hand in irritated twitches. “Should anything go wrong that can be connected to you, and you cannot produce any shred of proof that you are making efforts to provide responsible additions to the scientific community, your career could very well be over.” 

Dr. Holmes seemed to briefly consider the consequences (very briefly). Then, in a rather clipped voice, he argued, “This is horribly tedious even for you, Mycroft. Surely the Board wouldn’t be so interested as to inflict such dull parameters on _me._ Is this really necessary?”

The man, apparently named Mycroft, was having none of it. “Refusing now would not be wise. It will be a mess that I cannot clean up for you should anything go wrong. Do you understand?” 

The sudden finality in Mycroft’s tone had John raising his eyebrows, staring at Dr. Holmes in odd anticipation as if he were watching the climax of a film rather than a discussion of his ownership. After a moment, the scientist groaned and slumped back in his chair, seemingly to take on a persona (hopefully nothing more) of insanity as he shouted, “Yes, yes, fine! You have wasted your money, and more importantly, _my time_ with this foolishness, but if it removes you from my house, I will take him. Now get out!” 

“Daily, Sherlock. I expect him here daily,” Mycroft warned, but Dr. Holmes only replied by flicking his wrist to indicate that he had heard, before moving to pick up the violin that was sitting on the table next to him. Mycroft rolled his eyes just as the screeching started, and John seriously wondered if Dr. Holmes even knew how to play it or if he simply enjoyed the torture of instruments… and ear drums.

He had no time to further contemplate this however, as Mycroft seemed to acknowledge his existence again. He turned away from Dr. Holmes to bend down slightly, saying quietly to the shorter man, “If he dismisses you, ignore him. You are to report here every day, without fail, until your assistance is no longer required, and I will be the one to tell you when that is. Are we clear?”

John straightened his back and nodded in reply. Satisfied, Mycroft stood once again to full height, and a few moments later he’d disappeared out the front door, leaving John at the mercy of what seemed to be a madman. Lovely.

The blonde stood there for a while, listening to the difficult and disjointed sounds being forced from the violin’s strings until eventually they turned into something akin to a song. Dr. Holmes seemed no keener on recognizing his presence than when Mycroft was there, so John simply started looking around the room, taking in the living area of a Brilliant while he had the chance. John had expected the Upper City to be more… glittery, or something. White and shining and clean. But Dr. Holmes’ living space of choice was none of these things. Though it was large, larger than any home John had ever been in, it was still small in comparison to most of the other places he’d seen on the car ride there (granted, he had been a bit distracted and hadn’t seen much in the way of sights, but still). Rather than white, the walls were papered with a rather interesting red and tannish design, and Dr. Holmes had apparently taken the liberty to add his own decorations, as the walls were littered with writing and photographs. John even thought he saw a smiley face sprayed on with paint in amongst the chaos. 

Perhaps, though, what was most startling about Dr. Holmes’ abode was the simple fact that it was so… well, homey. The upholstery didn’t match, but it was oddly comforting, and it wasn’t overly bright. There was no harsh fluorescent lighting like he’d expected, but simply a few lamps and large windows. Cluttered, but not the intimidating prison he’d expected. 

The only thing John could tell about the man himself, given the way he’d cocooned the majority of his body, was his wildly curly, dark mop of hair and the stark contrast of those curls to his pale skin. He probably was so busy doing whatever it was scientists did, he rarely left his house during the day. Not like John, who before the injury had spent every moment outside. Though he supposed he wouldn’t get much of a chance for that anymore, would he?

After a while of waiting, John found himself getting antsy. Was Dr. Holmes really just going to ignore his existence until he left? Rude was putting it mildly, though he’d tried to put up with it because, as Mycroft had said, he’d been “bought and paid for”. This should have made him mad, to be talked about like he was an object, but it didn’t. Not when he knew where that money was going, and it was a lot of money. However, when Dr. Holmes seemed to make no indication of acknowledging John’s presence after several more minutes, he began to fear the scientist had actually forgotten about him. So, in the universal gesture of ‘pay attention to me,’ John cleared his throat.

The effect was near instantaneous. His fingers stilling, Dr. Holmes abruptly swiveled his head to look at John, for the first time allowing the man to see his eyes. They were a startling blue-green, unlike anything John had ever seen on a person. It made him wonder if Dr. Holmes had done something to his own genetics to artificially produce the color. He’d heard of Brilliants doing all kinds of crazy things, just to test their limits, so it wasn’t a far-fetched idea.

“Oh, shut up,” were the first words Dr. Holmes ever spoke to John Watson, and the accompanying sneer was nothing short of infuriating.

“I wasn’t speaking,” John replied tightly, trying not to glare. Dr. Holmes rolled his eyes.

“You were thinking, rather mundane thoughts by the looks of it. Why would I ever spend time on genetic modification on _myself?_ Honestly.” To John’s wide eyes, he added in a dull tone, “I can’t read minds either. Your thoughts are merely painfully obvious. Tea?” 

John blinked, trying to catch up with the rapidly speaking scientist. He seemed to rattle off each word he spoke as if he couldn’t get it out of his head fast enough, like he was overflowing and needed to make room for more words by expelling others. After a moment, John tentatively replied, “Um… sure.” He hadn’t exactly expected Dr. Holmes to offer such a thing, though it was certainly polite he supposed.

“Make yourself marginally useful then. Kitchen’s through that doorway. I take mine with two sugars, no milk, and for the love of God don’t leave the bag in,” Sherlock ordered, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen before he started to pick up his violin. 

John, unsurprisingly, didn’t move. 

Dr. Holmes paused when he realized this, quirking an eyebrow at the frozen man. “Have you suddenly lost the ability to understand English? I am aware Crawlers don’t receive ideal education growing up, but –“

“My English is perfectly fine, you git!” John shouted, his face abruptly going red. Crawlers were the name those native to London gave to their lowest class citizens, the people who lived in the underbelly of the city without actually being homeless. The name came from rather unsavory stereotypes, and though most accepted it as common phrasing, John certainly didn’t. To him, it was derogatory and hateful and elitist in all the worst ways, and he could only stand his intelligence being insulted so many times until it didn’t really matter what price someone had paid for him. Not that Dr. Holmes had even been the one to pay it in the first place. 

“And for your information, my schooling was-”

John’s angry tirade was cut off when Dr. Holmes abruptly stood from his chair, taking a few steps until he was looming over John, several inches taller than him and all the more imposing for it. What was most unsettling, however, was that Dr. Holmes was looking at him now, really looking at him, as if this was the first time he was actually seeing him, and the result was startling. His gaze was so intense John wondered if he was staring at him, or through him, and John wasn’t sure what to make of it. He had but a millisecond to wait. 

“You attended Smithson Academy,” he announced suddenly. To John’s expression he explained, “Of course you did, it’s the only Crawler school with any shred of reputation and you wouldn’t be defending it otherwise. Graduated with decent marks, enough to land yourself in a certification program, got your clearances to work clinical, but something didn’t quite fit. You wanted more, so you joined the Civies, they were happy to take someone with medical knowledge I imagine, and you were happy to run around the streets catching the criminals your side of the city is infested with. But then you got shot, couldn’t even go back to clinical work with the nerve damage in your arm, no wife or children, but desperately needing some sort of purpose. So when the recruiters came around, you signed away your soul for the ‘greater good’ and here you are.”

Mouth slightly agape, John stared up at Dr. Holmes with wide eyes. Mycroft had made very clear that Dr. Holmes hadn’t known he was coming, hadn’t seen his paperwork, so… “How do you know all that?” he asked after a moment.

“I didn’t know anything. I simply saw and drew conclusions. So, what was it?” he asked, further confusing the shorter man in front of him. Rolling his eyes again, Dr. Holmes elaborated, “What did I get wrong? There’s always something.” 

John scrambled in his head for a moment, then said hesitantly, “Well… two things really. I didn’t sign up for ‘the greater good’ or whatever other nonsense recruiters spew at us, and… I graduated with top marks at Smithson, actually. I was top of my class.” He didn’t mean to brag, but the scientist had asked.

This time, it seemed, it was Dr. Holmes’ turn to wear a surprised expression. John saw it for a flash before it was gone, his eyes narrowing in what was unmistakably a look of curiosity. “What did you say your name was?” he asked finally, and John had to suppress an eye roll.

“I didn’t. It’s Watson. John Watson,” he introduced as he held out a hand. Despite his frustration, it seemed to be the sort of thing to do, as if just now they were actually meeting each other. Which, in a way, they were. “I hope we work well together Dr. Holmes.”

The taller man smirked. “Call me Sherlock,” he responded, and clasped John’s outstretched hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you actually read the whole thing, thank you! This is based on a short drabble I wrote a very long time ago, and when I went back and read it I realized how perfect it would fit John and Sherlock. So I expanded the universe and moved some things around! I'm quite pleased with it, and I hope to make it around 10 chapters or so, though we'll see. I have a few plans for it, but a lot of things about this story are subject to change, so we shall see.
> 
> Now, I know there were probably some words that are specific to their society and universe that may have been confusing, but I tried to make everything pretty obvious even without explaining the meaning. But I promise their world will be explained as you read on. If you really have any burning questions you need answered though, feel free to leave them in the comments. :3


	2. Equality in Living Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets further acquainted with Sherlock, is shown the room he never asked for, and learns there's quite a bit more to this scientist than meets the eye.

The instant change in Dr. Holmes, or rather Sherlock, left John with whiplash. He’d gone from being a disinterested, dismissive prick one moment to… well, calling him friendly wasn’t the right word for it, but certainly his face no longer looked as appealing to punch as it had a few minutes ago (though John probably would have done more damage to his own hand than anything. The man’s cheek bones were ridiculous). He motioned for John to sit in the chair across from the leather seat he’d been occupying a moment ago, then turned away and abruptly disappeared through a doorway down the hall. John lowered himself into the chair, tapping his fingers against his knee as he waited.

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned, now fully dressed in perfectly tailored black trousers and a tight fitting purple button-up, his curls no longer a wild mass on his head. He was adjusting his sleeve as he came back around, sitting with a strangely elegant flourish back into his seat.

“So,” he started in an overly cheerful voice, instantly making John a bit nervous. “You sold yourself off to be injected with experimental hormones or sent into space without a helmet all at the word of whoever decided to pick you up, but suggesting you get acquainted with my kitchen made you angry. Is that right?” he asked, and though his expression was neutral John couldn’t help but get the impression he was smirking.

“Subjects aren’t house servants,” John responded in a flat tone. “I won’t do your cleaning or your cooking or anything else that isn’t related to your career. That’s the way it works.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, challenging his last statement. They both knew that wasn’t strictly true; while Subjects weren’t _supposed_ to be anything other than scientific aides, the more famous and important a Brilliant was, the more rules they could bend. Eventually, if you got high enough up, the rules pretty much stopped applying all together as far as the government was concerned.

The Scientific Board was another matter entirely, but they cared little as far as the rights of Subjects went. And Sherlock was at the very top of that Brilliant ladder. He could, hypothetically, do anything he wanted with John and there wasn’t too much John would be able to do about it. That’s why Mycroft had paid such a large amount. The higher you priced, the more you were giving up.

However, that didn’t mean John was just going to go along with possible exploitation. He’d sold his body, not his brain, and he was eager to make that clear as soon as possible. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair slightly, studying John as if he were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. Which, considering the state they’d found him in, could very well be true.

“So if I were working on a project that could, say, revolutionize the oil industry and I asked you to make me tea then…?” he questioned, trailing off to let John pick up the slack.

“Um, I guess then I would, yeah,” John answered, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He felt like he was being interviewed, but it was more than that. It seemed as if Sherlock was picking him apart from the inside out, and John wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Sherlock sat back abruptly. “Interesting,” he said quietly, the word rolling off his tongue as if he hadn’t quite expected it to be there. The moment was over in a second, however, and he sprung out of the chair again, this time motioning for John to follow. The shorter man stood and hastened his pace to keep up with his longer strides as Sherlock led them down the hallway.

“I’m not, by the way,” Sherlock mentioned, tilting his head slightly so he was talking to John over his shoulder. To his inquisitive stare, Sherlock elaborated, “Working on a project to revolutionize the oil industry. Humanitarian projects are horribly dull. We’ve just passed the library, which you’re welcome to use whenever you like so long as you put everything back where you found it.”

John nodded quickly, eyes scanning over the various rooms as they passed them. Most of the doors were shut, the ones that were open providing little insight into “how the other half lived.” Sherlock was obviously not the neatest man, though his living room seemed oddly well-kept, but honestly as long as John didn’t find any tables with bindings or anything to be suspended from while he was poked with needles, he could get over the clutter.

Sherlock eventually stopped in front of one of these closed doors, the last one in the hall and distinctively isolated from the majority of the flat. “And this will be your room. I was using it as storage so someone will have to clean it out, but that should be taken care of by tomorrow. Bring any personal effects then. You should also know that I sometimes play my violin in the middle of the night, I will occasionally stop talking for days on end, and if you happen to find my laboratory, you are under no circumstances to go inside. Clear?”

No, was John’s immediate reaction. Not clear at all. Instead of speaking, however, he just stared at the man who was very quickly forcing John’s brain into permanent overdrive just to keep pace with him. Sherlock seemed to entirely exist within his own universe, perfectly understandable to himself, but anyone else who ended up there was left without any sort of guide and expected to speak the language fluently. John was a quick study, but not quite that quick.

“Live with you?” he finally managed to sputter out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, Sherlock, that’s not really… I mean, I’m not going to run. It’s not necessary,” he explained after a moment. The only time Subjects ever ended up living with their owners was when there was a fear of them attempting to escape, unless it was explicitly part of the original contract for whatever reason. John was properly bought though, chipped and marked, so there was no reason for Sherlock’s caution. And anyway, John was honest. He wouldn’t try and wriggle out of a deal when the other end had already held up their side of it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s complete misunderstanding of the situation, shrugging past him to head back up the hall and looking satisfied when John automatically followed behind. “Obviously you’re not going to run. I’d find you within the hour anyway. But daily trips from the Lower City to here are not only a waste of resources, they’re potentially dangerous. Consider it an investment in keeping my property safe, if you like. You live alone, no wife or children, and my accommodations are more than satisfactory when compared to whatever hovel you live in now, I’m sure.”

The confidence with which Sherlock spoke would have annoyed John terribly if he didn’t know the power and intellect the man had to back it up. As it was, he merely pursed his lips and came to a standstill back in the living room, watching while Sherlock moved to search for something on a large bookshelf against the wall.

The truth of the matter was that John would like nothing more than someone to live with. If he was being honest, he was lonely in the pathetic excuse for a flat he called home, lonely and bored and close to rotting. When the recruiters had come looking for prospects all those weeks ago, he might not have signed up if he had anything worth holding on to. But the fact was, he didn’t. Nothing to fight for anymore, nothing to protest losing. And yet, a small voice of pride in the back of his head remained, demanding he struggle for any freedom he could get, arguing that living with Sherlock made him no better than a pet. It left him conflicted, to put it mildly.

“Do I have a choice?” John asked after an uncomfortable moment.

Sherlock paused at that, though it was so brief John nearly missed it entirely. “I often do my work at night,” he responded with a shrug, not exactly a demand but close enough to one. Still though, John took that as an allowance to think about it, and settled back into his earlier chair a bit more relaxed.

After a few moments of silence in which John watched Sherlock go through what seemed to be his entire bookshelf, pulling the literature out as if it were putting up a fight before either throwing it on the floor or jamming it back into its place with an irritated noise, he finally braved asking, “What is it exactly you do?” 

Sherlock, however, didn’t make any indication he’d even heard. “I mean, what’s your field? Or your interest range, even?” John pressed. The question was important, after all, if he was going to be in the middle of it. 

Most Brilliants were self-employed, meaning they had no allegiance to any one company or business. This system not only allowed them freedom to work on exactly what they wanted, but it also meant whoever bought their research/designs/art/whatever usually paid an absurd amount of money for it. For John though, all that meant was uncertainty. Today Sherlock could be working on something totally safe, and tomorrow he could suddenly develop the urge to throw John out a building with rubber tied to his feet to see what happens.

The sigh that came from the other side of the room snapped John out of that particular mental image, for it was not what John expected to hear. Most professionals, when they liked their job, jumped at the chance to discuss their work. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire conversation tedious. 

“Whatever manages to strike my interest, I explore,” the scientist answered finally, almost grudgingly. John tried his best not to cringe; he’d been afraid of that. But then Sherlock suddenly straightened his back and turned around, a book still in his hand as he looked at John carefully. 

“John, something you should know about me is that I don’t consider my research anything more than a means of income, a way to pass the time, and an aid for my true work,” he explained to the shorter man in a very professional tone, which did nothing to ebb John’s automatic ‘are-you-insane’ expression. 

What sort of Brilliant called their own career a _hobby?_ “You’re… a scientist, aren’t you? That is what you do,” John clarified, suddenly wondering if he’d been thinking about the wrong Sherlock Homes this entire time. Although, how many Sherlock Holmes’ could there possibly be in one city (or one world, for that matter)?

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. “Would my brother have been able to legally purchase you under my name if I wasn’t?” he retorted, and it was a fair response. If you weren’t a registered Brilliant as well as a registered scientist with the Board, purchasing a Subject was next to impossible. 

John thought of his reply very carefully before he spoke this time, not wishing to incur the same expression his last statement had. Sherlock was very good at questioning others’ intelligence with a deftly placed brow or a subtle curve of his lips, though perhaps part of it was simply John’s own perception of his obviously greater standing. Most of it though, was simply that Sherlock was good at insulting people.

“So… what is it then?” he asked finally. “Your true work, or whatever. What matters more to you than science?”

Sherlock seemed to be about to respond, when suddenly the sound of a car outside the flat brought his focus away from the conversation. Sherlock snapped to attention at the interruption, throwing the book in his hand on the ground and racing rather ungracefully to his window. John watched with curiosity as he pushed away the drapes, then smirked at what he saw.

“You’re about to find out,” Sherlock replied, John realizing a moment too late it was the answer to his question. Sherlock was already moving along, however, straightening out his shirt as he continued, “Are you familiar with the recent string of suicides that has been plaguing the Upper City?” The scientist pulled out a handheld device from his pocket that John recognized as a mobile. He found this odd, considering most people who could afford it merely had an Interface installed right into their heads, and John had no doubt Sherlock could afford it.

More importantly, John realized as he cringed at his own priorities, the conversation had rather suddenly shifted to suicide. “Um… yeah, I think I read about it on the PI,” he said after a moment, recalling the article on the Public Interface he’d managed to skim before Mycroft had picked him up that morning. “Three people poisoned themselves, right?”

With a twinkle in his eye that was far too gleeful for comfort, Sherlock responded, “Wrong. Four people poisoned themselves. There’s been a fourth and something about this one is different.”

There was barely a pause before Sherlock practically sashayed across the room, past a horribly confused John, to the door. With a flourish and seemingly no cue at all, the man opened the door just as none other than DI Gregory Lestrade raised his hand to knock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend on this being a case-fic, and I still don't, but I figured doing the first case would be a good way to further explain the world they're living in. A special thanks to dimtheselights for beta reading for me, as well as my sister and my best friend for their encouragement. 
> 
> Also, to everyone who's read/left comments or kudos, thank you as well!


	3. A Brilliant Detective?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for taking forever to post this and then having it be so disappointingly short. I'm suffering a major block with this story and am unsure if I'll finish it, so I decided to just post the rest of what I have and hope that someday I can come back to it.

John knew who the man was, of course, having been a Civie himself before the injury. The two had never met, but being the Detective Inspector of Major Crimes in the Upper City earned Lestrade a certain level of respect and recognition. He was probably one of the few Regulars with any authority over Brilliants in the entire city of London, and though he wasn’t a Crawler like John, the blonde couldn’t help but feel a sense of detached pride over that.

He had to admit though, the man in front of him hardly came across as authoritative. Taller than John by a few inches, Greg Lestrade appeared worn from too many sleepless hours and too many cups of coffee, a state that John rather unfortunately knew well. 

Sherlock did not seem to find introductions were in order. “Where?” the tall man simply asked, without so much as a pause.

“Brixton, Lauriston Corp,” Lestrade replied just as easily, shifting back and forth on his feet like he was eager to quickly leave the place. “Will you come?”

John was now looking from Lestrade to Sherlock, completely and totally lost by the conversation. Why the hell would a murder investigator be asking for the presence of a famous scientist? He had zero opportunity to ask, however, as the conversation was rapid fire, a pace already developed between the two that John wasn’t quite sure if he envied or not.

“Who’s offered to assist today?” Sherlock questioned.

Lestrade seemed decidedly awkward, a flicker of worry entering his gaze at this. “Er, no one. But Anderson is on call.”

“I can’t work with Anderson! He’s a complete imbecile. I _need_ a competent assistant!” 

“Well, Anderson is who you get,“ Lestrade replied with an eyebrow raise. He seemed to be rather used to those sorts of outbursts. There was a thick pause between them for a moment, each side silently pushing against the other, before Sherlock abruptly waved his hand in the air as if dismissing the entire conversation. 

By this point, both men seemed to completely forget John was in the room all together, and no closer to noticing his presence the longer the conversation continued. Though to be fair, Sherlock seemed to barely register even Lestrade, the way he kept averting his eyes as if he had no real interest in the man who was speaking, though he did have a decided interest in the content. 

As the scientist demanded further details of whatever was going on, John watched as an unmistakable fire of enthusiasm lit in Sherlock Holmes’ eyes, and even he could tell where this was going. The conversation ended with a curt, “I’ll follow you,” and just like that Lestrade was out the door again.

John tried to ask, “What just happened?” but Sherlock moved so fast it barely got out of his mouth before it fell onto empty air. Sherlock was already shrugging on his coat before he tied a dark blue scarf loosely around his neck, checking his mobile again despite there having been no alerts since the last time he looked down at it.

“Feel free to make yourself at home John,” Sherlock mentioned off-handedly, and that was it. Just like that, the mad scientist/apparent police aide was gone, leaving John standing in the middle of an empty flat with a mind filled with unanswered questions. 

The blonde debated with himself for about three seconds on whether he should just go home for the day or not when the deep baritone of Sherlock’s voice from the doorway startled him out of his thoughts. Could the man bloody teleport or something?

“You’ve worked clinical.” John looked over at him, leaned against the doorway as he pulled on winter gloves, and discovered Sherlock’s gaze was focused once again on him, piercing and thorough and unflinching. John swallowed before giving a tentative nod, because of course Sherlock already knew this and it wasn’t an answer he was looking for.

“Know your way around a crime scene too, I would imagine. Seen more than your share of trouble.” He was assessing, John realised as he automatically straightened out his back a bit. What Sherlock was looking for, however, was unreadable.

“Enough for a lifetime,” John agreed with a surly nod, his mouth a hard line worn by experience. Any Crawler had enough trouble for a lifetime, even if they didn’t work with the Civies. 

Sherlock stepped closer to John then, crossing the room so he was standing over him, that icy gaze just as unwavering as always. “Care to see some more?” he asked, the question practically a purr. John knew he was done for after that.

And that was how John Watson ended up in a car next to a Brilliant for the second time that day, hurtling at 80mph through the Upper City towards Lauriston Corperations. He still had no idea why they were going there, only that a dead body and a group of Civies were waiting for them at the end. Needless to say, John’s head was spinning.

Sherlock unsurprisingly picked up on this, and before John could even gather his bearings enough to figure out what he was going to say, the taller man noted, “You have questions.” John actually rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, what are we doing?” he asked immediately, no small amount of irritation in his tone as he turned away from the window to stare at the Brilliant. “Why is a detective inspector asking a scientist to come to a crime scene?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock drawled, as if those two words alone were meant to serve as the answer to every question John has ever had. When John merely blinked at him, Sherlock sighed in a rather dramatic fashion and elaborated, “I told you my experiments were just a means of income; this is my true work. I’m a consulting detective, when the police can’t handle something, and they rarely can, I step in, solve the case. It’s quite simple, John.”

John licked the seam of his lips while he thought about how to respond to this outlandish statement. He’d already realized for himself at that point that nothing, _nothing_ was simple with Sherlock Holmes. In a matter of about six hours John’s entire life had been tethered to this man irrevocably, and every time he opened his mouth John found his perception changing. It was bloody marvelous, really. Head spinning and frustrating and potentially dangerous, but brilliant regardless. 

“Is that… normal?” John wasn’t sure why he bothered asking, really, already knowing the answer for himself. “Do a lot of Brilliants have an alternate career?”

Sherlock gave him a look as a response. 

“Right,” John nodded. The two were silent for a moment, Sherlock obviously thinking that would be the end of the conversation and beginning to tune John out already, but something clicked inside John’s head as he considered this new information that he couldn’t keep to himself. “The observing thing. When you were able to figure out my family and what school I went to and my injury. That’s why you do it, isn’t it? You’re good at putting things together.”

Sherlock focused his attention back on John quickly, watching his face and for a moment, John saw an odd flash of vulnerability in the man, an out-of-character hesitance that John didn’t quite comprehend the meaning of. “Yes,” he answered slowly, appearing to be bracing himself for something.

John wondered then if he should say anything at all, but he felt at that point there wasn’t much going back. “I never got a chance to tell you that that was… well, properly amazing, really,” he admitted. Sherlock was probably tired of hearing such things, people spent their whole lives sucking up to Brilliants like him. And it was true, the man’s expression looked skeptical, but not annoyed. And it wasn’t like John had anything to gain by sweet talking anyway. Contractually, he was barely even a person anymore.

“You… actually mean that,” Sherlock realised, gaze on John now as if he were some endangered species. “That isn’t what people usually say.”

John frowned at that. “What do people usually say?” he questioned genuinely.

Sherlock’s mouth tugged and John couldn’t tell if he was bothered or amused by it. “You’re less irritating as a scientist,” he answered dryly, and John couldn’t help but grin.


End file.
